


The Champagne Waltz

by lennons_lemon_queen



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1964, Cannon, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lennons_lemon_queen/pseuds/lennons_lemon_queen
Summary: Locked in hotel after hotel, The Beatles are getting tired of sitting around and staring at the wall. They were in America, after all! And they were absolutely successful! So, what's the problem?Paul not being able to be with John is the problem. So many missed hugs and kisses, all lost within the bustle of hectic performance. Not to mention their other two friends and band mates being so close at hand.Some quality champagne and entertainment is sure to liven things up.





	The Champagne Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Have some tooth-rotting fluff, free of charge.

"Can we at least go downstairs and get dinner?"  
"No. Dinner will be brought up to you by request."  
"This is crazy!"  
"Now, I'm sorry, boys. But it's too risky."  
Paul sat down on the carpet and leaned his head against the couch. It was 1964, and The Beatles had just made their debut in America. They had been corralled into hotel after hotel throughout the week and it was beginning to get irritating. They couldn't go out without police, couldn't open the windows, couldn't damn near breathe, it felt like. It was insane.  
John flopped down onto the couch next to Paul.  
"We're prisoners, mate. There's no way out."  
Paul huffed, amused. "Seems like it."  
He glanced over at George on the ottoman, strumming absentmindedly at his guitar while Ringo leaned his head against the corner of the stool, watching TV.  
"John,"  
"Yea, Macca?"  
"Did ya ever think we'd get this far?"  
John paused. "No."  
Paul looked down at his hands and saw the ragged quicks of his nails that he had bitten. "Isn't it kind of mad, you know? All this?"  
John sighed and sat up. "Of course it is. It's just a matter of how you take it, I suppose."  
Paul looked into John's eyes from his seat. A silent communication between them let John know that Paul was dreadfully nervous.  
John exhaled and shook his head. "Come on, now. Don't be like that. They're just people. Like the crowds we'd get back in the town square in Liverpool." He moved over next to Paul and wrapped his arms around him.  
Paul tried to fight the overwhelming sensation threatening to make tears spill down his cheeks but they came anyway.  
"You're acting like me before a gig, now, come on. It's okay."  
"I know..."  
George looked up from his guitar when he heard Paul's sniffling.  
"You okay, Paul?"  
Paul shook his head.  
"He's overwhelmed a bit, I've got 'em." John spoke for him.  
George nodded. "Just do what I do. Picture 'em in their underwear and don't let the craziness get to yer 'ead."  
Ringo snorted and pointed back at George. "He's right, you know. And many times I've sat there, just like you. Only to be reminded of that."  
Paul laughed a bit, his shoulders still shaking. "Thanks."  
John looked at Paul. Even without his glasses he was the loveliest shape his vision would ever be able to make out. He wanted so badly to kiss his forehead, to wipe the tears away and hold him closer. But George and Ringo would probably have a few choice words to that. Maybe one day...  
Paul looked up at John and his hazel eyes were red-rimmed with tears. John gave him his warmest smile and he saw that same spark ignite within Paul like rekindling a flame. Some things you just don't need words to do.  
"Come on, lads! Let's celebrate! We're in bloody America for God's sake!" John tried to lift the spirits of the room.  
"Yea!" George stood and set his guitar down.  
John got up and looked around for the refreshment cart that had been pushed in not that long ago. An unopened bottle of champagne lay in a tub of ice with a congratulatory note attached.  
"Lets crack it open!" He said, hoisting it up.  
Ringo got up and walked over, grabbing the corkscrew.  
After a few struggling moments, they had popped it open and John flailed it back over the ice as it spewed foam.  
"Forgot about that part." He muttered.  
Champagne flowed into four glasses. And it continued to. For a couple hours. By eleven o'clock, everyone was thoroughly drunk.  
Ringo was fast asleep on the floor in front of the TV, his face downward in the carpeting and George was struggling to keep his eyes open on whatever program's credits endlessly rolled up along the screen.  
Paul was on the couch, his glass still in hand and John sat next to him, trying not to nod off.  
"Ladies and gentlemen, Lawrence Welk." A man announced on the screen.  
"Who?" John asked Paul.  
"He's a musician."  
"Well, obviously. Look at 'em. Great blueberry suit n' all, conducting."  
Paul snorted. "Me da used to have a friend overseas who was on this show once."  
"Really?"  
"Yeah."  
"Don't tell me you actually like this cornball trash?"  
Paul went silent, his face reddening. "...Some of its nice, y'know."  
"Ye big pansy!"  
"There ain't nothin' wrong with likin' band music an' ragtime!"  
"I know I know. I won't argue with you on that again...But the ballads."  
"What about the ballads?"  
"They're so boring!"  
Paul sighed. "They're not the most intriguing pieces of music in the world, but at least they've got cool sets. Look at all that! Imagine our sets done up like that!"  
John chuckled. "Have me coming in on a boat for a number."  
"With twinkling stars and fog!"  
"And then a lovely lady will appear from the fog, all done-up in a sparkling dress, and sing-- _John_ ," He raised his voice up in falsetto. "' _Ye've won a million dollars and yer goin' ta Tahiti.'_ An' her tits'd be huge."  
"Shove off." Paul was laughing beside himself and he pushed John's knee with his own, still trying to focus on the program.  
"...Now the band will perform a waltz for your dancing or viewing pleasure." The director called over the television set.  
"Well, shit." John laughed.  
"Shall we dance?" Paul asked John in a posh accent.  
"But, my good sir, haven't we ladies to dance with?"  
"My, my, plenty. In fact, they're all outside. Beating their brains out by the lamppost."  
"Well that certainly is a shame, seeing that we're locked up in here."  
"What ever will we do!" Paul laughed. He looked over at George and Ringo again, who were now fast asleep.  
His smile faded to seriousness.  
"...Johnny,"  
John had already processed Paul's train of thought and stood, offering a silent hand for Paul to grab.  
Paul's smile returned and he stood, taking John's hand as he was pulled into a close and gentle waltz.  
He buried his cheek in John's shoulder, closing his eyes as they swayed.  
"Thank you." He whispered softly.  
John smiled. "Don't go an' thank me. I know you've been goin' outta yer mind with anxiety. Ye think too much, luv. But I'm one to talk, I do the same. Just find the off switch."  
Paul sighed. "You're the off-switch." He said, nearly inaudible.  
John snorted. "What a lovely thing to tell a fella. Ye sure know how to play up the romance, Paulie."  
Paul laughed. "Shut up."  
"Ah. How charming."  
Paul lifted his head and made eye contact with John. When they looked at each other everything was okay. Everything fell into place. It was as if everything around them ceased to exist, or matter.  
"I can't believe ye have me dancin' to this pansy-arse music in a hotel room."  
"Well, ya better believe it, son."  
John smiled, glowing. He leaned in close to Paul's ear, lips brushing. "I love you, Macca." His voice was hushed.  
Paul smiled boyishly. He pecked John on the cheek. "I love you too, ye big pansy."  
"But you're the pansy, _pansy_!"  
"But clearly, you're dancing to pansy music--therefore--you're a pansy-- _pansy_."  
John shook his head. "I'd strangle ye if I didn't want ta kiss yer damn mouth so bad."  
"Why, _Johnny_!" Paul imitated the voice of an offended woman. "You sure know how to play up the romance!"  
"I learned it from you!"  
"Will ya shut it?! People are tryin' ta sleep here!" George yelled.  
Paul's blood ran cold. He yanked himself away from John and looked in George's direction. His eyes were still closed and it looked like he hadn't moved at all.  
"Sorry, Geo." Paul whispered back.  
"Ah, apologize to the audience of screaming ninnies tomorrow..."  
Paul looked at John again and order was restored.  
"C'mon, Macca. Let's get to sleep."  
"Alright."  
They fell asleep, limbs entangled on the small cream-colored sofa in the middle of the room, with dreams of waltzing through misty meadows seeping into their brains.

 

 


End file.
